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The Story of an Artist (Obscured by Clouds)

The Story of an Artist (Obscured by Clouds), a photo by justin haynes on Flickr.

The Story of an Artist (Obscured by Clouds)

listen up and i'll tell a story about an artist growing old
some would try for fame and glory, others aren't so bold
everyone in friends and family saying "hey get a job
why do you do that only, why are you so odd"?
"we dont really like what you do, we dont think anyone ever will
it's a problem that you have and this problem's made you ill"
the artist walks alone, someone says behind his back
"got his gall to call himself that, he doesn't even know where he's at"

the artist walks among the flowers appreciating the sun
he does this all his waking hours, but is it really so wrong
they sit in front of their tv saying "hey this is fun"
they laugh at the artist saying "he doesn't know how to have fun"
the best things in life are truly free, singing birds and laughing bees
you got me wrong says he, the sun don't shine in your tv

listen up and i'll tell a story about an artist growing old
some would try for fame and glory, others just like to watch the world.

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Poema. The oxen of the Sun by James Joyce

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is the infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived. A region where grey twilight ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her mother with ungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight phantoms are they yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapely haunches, a supple tendonous neck, the meek apprehensive skull. They fade, sad phantoms: all is gone. Agendath is a waste land, a home of screechowls and the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is no more. And on the highway of the clouds they come, muttering thunder of rebellion, the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! Huuh! Parallax stalks behind and goads them, the lancinating lightnings of whose brow are scorpions. Elk and yak, the bulls of Bashan and of Babylon, mammoth and mastodon, they come trooping to the sunken sea, Lacus Mortis. Ominous, revengeful zodiacal host! They moan, passing upon the clouds, horned and capricorned, the trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned the giantantlered, snouter and crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their moving moaning multitude, murderers of the sun.

Onward to the dead sea they tramp to drink, unslaked and with horrible gulpings, the salt somnolent inexhaustible flood. And the equine portent grows again, magnified in the deserted heavens, nay to heaven's own magnitude, till it looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And, lo, wonder of metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger of the daystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is she, Martha, thou lost one, Millicent, the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she now arise, a queen among the Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan hour, shod in sandals of bright gold, coifed with a veil of what do you call it gossamer! It floats, it flows about her starborn flesh and loose it streams emerald, sapphire, mauve and heliotrope, sustained on currents of cold interstellar wind, winding, coiling, simply swirling, writhing in the skies a mysterious writing till after a myriad metamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled sign upon the forehead of Taurus."

Where Do You Think You Will Be? BY HAFIZ

I am sitting on a mountain.
I am casting shadows into the sky.
I did not invite it but the sun has come
And is now playing tag with my feet.
I am whispering to clouds today,
“Watch out for my shoulders,”
For I wish no harm
To all my soft friends.
Where do you think you will Be
When God reveals Himself
Inside of you?
I was so glad to hear
That every pillow in this world
Will become stuffed with
My soul and beard.
I am sitting on a mountain range.
I am a precious body of living water
Offered to the earth
From Light’s own hands.
Why ever talk of miracles
When you are destined to become
Infinite love.
Still, the Final Grace was left:
For all of existence and Hafiz to blend
And to find that I am every pillow
Offering comfort
To each mind and
Foot

Poema en video: Borges y yo de Jorge Luis Borges por Jorge Luis Borges
Poema en audio: La noche cíclica de Jorge Luis Borges por Jorge Luis Borges

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From Paracelsus R. Browning

TRUTH is within ourselves; it takes no rise
From outward things, whate’er you may believe.
There is an inmost centre in us all,
Where truth abides in fullness; and around,
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in,	5
This perfect, clear perception—which is truth.
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh
Binds it, and makes all error: and, to KNOW,
Rather consists in opening out a way
Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape,	10
Than in effecting entry for a light
Supposed to be without.

II I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed,
Uncomprehended by our narrow thought,
But somehow felt and known in every shift	15
And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore
Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are
What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy
In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss,
From whom all being emanates, all power	20
Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore,
Yet whom existence in its lowest form
Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he:
With still a flying point of bliss remote,
A happiness in store afar, a sphere	25
Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs
Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever.
The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth,
And the earth changes like a human face;
The molten ore bursts up among the rocks,	30
Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright
In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,
Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask—
God joys therein! The wroth sea’s waves are edged
With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate,	35
When, in the solitary waste, strange groups
Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,
Staring together with their eyes on flame—
God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride.
Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod:	40
But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes
Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure
Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between
The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,
Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face;	45
The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms
Like chrysalids impatient for the air,
The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run
Along the furrows, ants make their ade;
Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark	50
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek
Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews	55
His ancient rapture. Thus He dwells in all,
From life’s minute beginnings, up at last
To man—the consummation of this scheme
Of being, the completion of this sphere
Of life: whose attributes had here and there	60
Been scattered o’er the visible world before,
Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant
To be united in some wondrous whole,
Imperfect qualities throughout creation,
Suggesting some one creature yet to make,	65
Some point where all those scattered rays should meet
Convergent in the faculties of man.

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The Story of an Artist (Obscured by Clouds)

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Glassyens

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Poema. The oxen of the Sun by James Joyce

Where Do You Think You Will Be? BY HAFIZ

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